


like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean

by liquidsky



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Arguably Too Many Feelings For One Short Sex Scene, Bottom Steve Rogers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 13:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Steve has wanted.





	like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean

The different versions of him all tumbled into one another as he clenched his hand into a fist and drove said fist into the headboard. It was possibly the first time in forever he had felt like himself at all – he was stretched thin, and he couldn't catch his breath, and there was more feeling trapped inside his ribcage in that one single fraction of a second than he could recall ever having experienced before. And yet he had never once felt more in-sync, more caught up, more sharply on focus and starkly alight than when Bucky's fingers twisted carelessly inside him. 

It was the shifting gears of pleasure, the ignition and the key together at once, both the rise and the fall, and he wanted nothing more than to rest upon it and within it until the end of time, trapped under the press of Bucky's fingers and the weight of his tongue and the cold light as it fell over the planes of his back and caught Steve's eye. 

He wanted too much—and Steve couldn't recall ever having wanted any less. He was, against all odds, the type that craved. For as long as he had known Bucky, and for as long as he had known himself, he had yearned, surrounded by images of his own conjuring, of the shifts of Bucky's body and the creases on the corners of his eyes, and all the small and large ways he had made sure their lives became intertwined as can be. 

Steve gasped. He’d been gasping for the past hundred years, give or take, straining for breath, except now his body clung to the shape of Bucky’s hands over and around and inside him and he didn’t have to yearn anymore. His eyes fell closed against the brightness of the air around him, the short echoes of his ragged panting trapezing through the bedroom, bouncing off the walls and back to them as Bucky sucked a bruise on the skin of Steve’s thigh and curled his fingers at a precise angle. Steve sighed, and grunted, and Bucky’s lips trailed upwards, paused over his stomach, paused again over his chest and his heart and the dip of his collarbone. 

The bedroom was warm. Steve was warm, too, and so was Bucky, the candor of his body covering Steve’s sides, his legs tangling with Steve’s, his hand smart, right where it should be, creating space for himself as though Steve’s body didn’t already possess no room for anything that wasn’t Bucky. His breath tickled Steve’s cheek, so Steve turned his head in time to feel it brush against his lips before Bucky’s own closed over his. 

Bucky’s fingers stopped just long enough for anticipation to build, for sweat to pool on the crease of Steve’s folded elbows, his legs twitching, hands shaking–the math that allowed Bucky to inhabit Steve never seemed quite right, Steve was always left wanting more, more, more, Bucky more firmly around him, over him, feet touching, hair falling over Steve’s shoulders, his jaw dragging against Steve’s throat. At any given moment, all Steve could think of was having Bucky crawl his way inside him, how he felt as though Bucky could turn him inside out, _had_ turned him inside out already, a collection of sharp exhales leaving him along with the remnants of control he wouldn’t have in his possession for much longer. 

His mouth worked around words that were somehow kept inside, a litany of desperate renditions of Bucky’s name traveling up his throat and resting on the tip of his tongue as Bucky mouthed along the line of Steve’s jaw. He twisted once, twice, and Steve’s thoughts went silent. He dragged his fingers out, pushed on his elbows to hover over Steve, the air around him heavy with waiting. The outside of his knees pushed against the inside of Steve’s thighs, and soon enough Steve’s mind was overflowing again, loud enough that the frantic rush of his own blood was all he could hear. 

Bucky pushed in one millimeter at a time, slowly, too slowly, so Steve took his shaking hands to Bucky’s back, slid them across his waist and up his shoulder blades. Bucky met his eye, and Steve hooked his ankles around the back of Bucky’s thighs to propel him down. Steve’s voice kept catching on his throat, and his eyes kept falling shut, but Bucky seemed to understand the notes of Steve’s particularly quiet song without issue, pushing forward, pressing deeper, in, in, _in_ until all Steve could taste was him – in the back of his throat, curling around his tongue. He tasted his own pleas and the heavy tang of years-worth of desire as Bucky moved against him, with him, pulling Steve’s legs up to fit against his hips, his teeth sinking into the curve of Steve’s shoulder, his hands surrounding him easily. 

Steve had craved, and he had yearned, and he had had every thought of Bucky make a home in his head for the past century, but he could not have predicted the unyielding pressure of Bucky in him, on him, over him. He was everywhere at once. Their hands tangling, skin sticking, mouths meeting. Steve grunted, and sighed, and Bucky swallowed each puff of air eagerly. For the first time, it occurred to Steve that perhaps while he had been yearning for Bucky, Bucky had also been longing for him. 

It built only in the sense that it didn’t all at – it obliterated instead, shattering its way through him, wrecking his conscience as well as his nerve-endings. The push and pull of Bucky inside him made Steve shake and shake and shake, clutching the back of Bucky’s arms like a lifeline as Bucky panted against the side of his lips. 

He shook, and Bucky kept his pace, his hands curving around Steve’s hips, traveling up to his waist, touching his ribs, touching his arms, touching his own hands, threading their fingers, dragging Steve’s arms up to rest against the headboard, half-cushioned by the pillows, his legs shaking, his hands shaking, every word he’d so carefully kept inside spilling out on a high tide, a million iterations of Bucky’s name, all of them less composed than the last, breathy and rough, and Bucky let his body fall over Steve’s, kept moving, moving and moving until he stopped and Steve almost asked him to keep going, except his voice seemed to fail him, and Bucky looked up at him at just the right moment to freeze him in place, caught under the zeal of his gaze. 

Bucky didn’t let go of his hand – they shifted together, up from the pillows, down to their bodies, their fingers still traveling, tracing patterns they didn’t have words for but of which the meaning they knew anyway. 

Steve inhaled, and Bucky did, too.

**Author's Note:**

> i've spent the last three days going through several people's poetry tags on tumblr and came across an incredible post that put john denver's _annie's song_ side by side with an excerpt from rainer maria rilke's _book of hours: love poems to god_ and it left me very much changed in the sense that i, uh, _cried_ then realized i really wanted to write something small and sort of worship-ish and _hungry_. so i hope this fic could sort of encapsulate all of those three things. anyway. the title is (obviously) a line from _annie's song_ –i would've gone for "you fill up my senses, come fill me again", but then i just visually like the previous lines better as a title. anyway! as usual, i'm [unhawkeye](https://www.unhawkeye.tumblr.com) on tumblr if anyone wants to come say hi! 
> 
> oh, and by the way! this is not beta'd, so any and all mistakes are my own - feel free to point out if you catch something and i'll make sure to fix it! thanks!


End file.
